


Cookie Angel

by Fire_Bear



Series: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas [16]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Cookies, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9109552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: Jack's not been having the best of years and his neighbour turning up with cookies is not helping.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the prompt: Character A bakes too many Christmas cookies so they share it with Character B.
> 
> This a sort-of AU where the Samwell crew don’t meet at Samwell and end up meeting each other later. Jack is in the Falconers, of course, but I’m not entirely sure what Bitty’s up to.
> 
> Also, I wasn’t sure what I was doing with Jack’s mental state - I wasn’t sure if he was anxious or if he was depressed or if I should have him taking medication or whatever. So it’s kind of vague. I hope it’s okay for this short thing. (It was because of the ending I wanted, I suppose. I’ve probably made a mess of it. Sorry.)
> 
> (Kyle is no-one in particular.)

It hadn't been a good year, all 'round. At the outset, Jack had broken a wrist after tripping over a package left in front of his apartment door. Once he had healed, he'd worked twice as hard and ruined his health that way. Thankfully, he had still been in good shape to start the new hockey season. Unfortunately, it hadn't gone quite the way the team was hoping and they'd soon been kicked out of the league. Thanksgiving back in Canada had raised his spirits a little but the breakup with Kyle had been a kick to his gut.

And so the first of December dawned bright and early and Jack was still sitting on his couch, hands clasped as he tried and failed to keep his tears from falling. He really didn't want to have anything to do with the rest of the year and was actually considering hibernation. So, when there was a sharp knock at the door, Jack nearly didn't answer it. However, he wiped at his eyes and, with several long strides, he reached the door to unlock and open it.

On the other side was Jack's neighbour, a Mr. E. Bittle, if his door plaque was anything to be believed. He'd moved in during the summer but Jack had been so wrapped up in his own life that he hadn't welcomed the man to the building. Mr. Bittle had, apparently, tried to say hello one week when Jack was out of town for a few days: he came back to an empty cake box with a note saying that it would have gone to waste and to let his neighbour know when he'd be in town next. Jack hadn't bothered to reply.

Seeing him for the first time, Jack figures he could lift the man above his head with one hand. Bittle was short and thin but his face was bright and welcoming. He was like a ray of sunshine just _standing_ there. In his hands was a white tray upon which were piled several Christmas cookies shaped like trees, each of them decorated with a pristine finish. All of them had a different arrangement of 'baubles' on the trees and some of them had names written on them with twirling letters.

“Oh, my goodness!” said Bittle: Jack could almost see him putting his hands on his cheeks had he not been holding the tray. “It really _is_ Jack Zimmermann I live beside!”

“Ah,” said Jack, stomach falling. “It's me.”

“It's such a pleasure to meet you, Mister Zimmermann. I'm Eric Bittle – I'm in apartment two twenty-six. I would shake your hand but, as you can see, I baked too many _delicious_ Christmas cookies so I'm just handing them out.” His smile faltered as he took in Jack's appearance and he began to frown. “Are you-?”

“I'm fine,” Jack said, shortly. Then he pointed at the cookies with names on them. “Those look like you baked them for someone.”

Blinking, Eric nodded slowly. “Yes. Those ones are for the children upstairs. And I got so carried away, I made too much dough. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you.”

He thought that would send Eric away but Eric stayed where he was frowning deeper. “Are you sure you're all right? Have you got anywhere to be today? Because you look far too tired to be doing anything-”

“I said, I'm fine,” Jack told him, tone a little too harsh.

For a moment, Eric stared at Jack, startled. Then he glanced away, down the hall. Biting his lip, he seemed to come to a decision. “You look like you need cheering up. Here.” And, grabbing a cookie, he forced it into Jack's hand and scurried off.

Jack considered following him to make him take it back but he really didn't want to step outside of his home. So he closed and locked the door, retreated to his kitchen for coffee and dropped the cookie into the garbage can.

* * *

The next morning, Jack felt about the same but he'd forced himself to take a shower and at least felt clean. With no idea what do with himself, he put on the TV on a random channel and found one showing some sort of TV movie. He barely paid attention, pondering on his life. It was as the movie seemed to be reaching its climax, such as it was, that there was a knock at the door.

Wondering who it could be, Jack made the effort to get up and answer it. On the other side, of course, was Eric, smiling widely. He had another tray in his hand, this one with snowflake cookies, each of them iced a different Christmassy colour. “Hello, Mister Zimmermann!” he said, cheerfully. “I was making some more cookies for my friends and, what do you know, I made too much – _again_. I can never stop myself from cutting out an extra few from my batch of dough. See, my friend, Lardo, she's doing some sort of art function so she was thinking of having a table with home-made food. I think that's the theme: home-made. Or she's just trying to appease me. I've already baked her a pecan pie or two. Do you think I should bake another? Would two be enough for all the artists and friends and buy-”

Jack, who had been amazed at how fast and how much Eric could talk, finally decided he should interrupt. “Mister Bittle-”

“Oh, please, _you_ can call me Eric. If you'd like. My friends call me Bitty. It's quite a sweet little nickname, don't you think? That's probably because my friends are all sweethearts. Especially Lardo. Oh, hey, why-?”

“ _Eric_ ,” said Jack, trying not to grit his teeth. “Was there something you needed?”

The man blinked, put off. His smile faded a little and Jack felt a pang of guilt – something else to add to how horrible he had been feeling the past few days. However, Eric's smile wasn't gone for long, though it didn't return to its original brightness as he said, “I just thought you might like a cookie? These ones are peppermint flavoured. Ah, and, how did you like the last one?”

Shrugging a shoulder, Jack said, “I don't know.” He left it at that: after all, that was enough to make Eric's smile disappear entirely.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. I suppose you haven't had a chance to try it yet, then, right?” He tried to smile: it was weaker than ever. “Ah, but, that means you haven't tried _any_ of my cookies. You should try one of these, let me know how they are.” And, before Jack could protest, Eric pushed a blue one into his hand.

Still a little stunned at the speech Eric had just given him, Jack watched him go, bewildered. Once he was out of sight, Jack stepped back into his apartment and shut and locked the door. He went to the kitchen with the cookie and considered putting it in the garbage again. At the last minute, however, he found himself putting it on a small plate and leaving it on the counter, thinking that he'd try it when he felt better.

* * *

Three days passed and Jack wasn't feeling in a better place. He'd lied to his dad about being fine. His team-mates had called, wondering where he was and he told them he'd got the flu, telling them he was getting chauffeured back to Canada to be taken care of. The snowflake cookie was still on the plate.

Since Eric hadn't turned up for a few days, Jack figured he'd been put off coming by since he'd told him he hadn't eaten the cookie. He'd felt horrible for being so cruel to Eric and had felt rather ill afterwards. In fact, he hadn't eaten anything since Kyle had left, unable to stomach it. Jack was hoping the nausea would dissipate soon as he was beginning to feel a little light-headed whenever he stood up.

Just as he'd stood to fetch a glass of water, leaving the movie he had been watching running, uninterested in it, there was a knock at the door. He twitched. Was it Eric again? Or someone from the team? Should he answer it or stay where he was? Another sharp knock sounded and, with a sigh, Jack made his way to the door.

“Hello, Mister Zimmermann,” said Eric once he'd opened it. He held out some letters with one hand and balanced a tray full of Christmas cookies on the palm of the other. “These are for you.”

Jack frowned, confused. “Why do you have these?” he asked as he took them off the man.

“Your mailbox is full and the mailman, oh my goodness, he was having difficulty trying to squeeze them in. So I said I'd deliver them, personally.” Eric frowned, concern in his eyes. “Why have you not been in it? I mean, I can understand forgetting to check once in a while or even ignoring junk mail. But this is several days' worth-”

“ _Thank_ you, Eric,” Jack said. “It's nothing for you to worry about.” He glanced at the tray, noting that the cookies were in the shape of Santas today, decorated with shiny icing. “More cookies?”

“Ah, yes. Gotta get some down to that homeless shelter. But I-”

“Made too much? Don't you need to measure out your ingredients?”

Eric's frown deepened. “Well, it just so happens that I do. There's such a thing as 'spreading the Christmas cheer', you know.”

“I don't really think I want any of that, thank you.”

“You haven't eaten that peppermint one, have you?” Eric asked, looking rather upset. “If you don't like mint, then perhaps you'll like chocolate. Here.” And he shoved a cookie into Jack's free hand.

“Look,” Jack tried, “I don't want this.”

“Just eat it,” Eric insisted. “It's chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better.” And Eric spun on his heel and went back to his own apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Retreating into his own apartment, Jack put the mail on the counter beside the plate with the snowflake cookie. Then he placed the Santa beside the snowflake. Pausing, he stuck his finger in the icing and scooped a little of it up. Tasting it, he shuddered at the sweetness. He didn't need to eat something unhealthy after sitting around for days – he'd probably get fat.

* * *

Before Jack had even dragged himself from his bed, there was a knock on the door. Groaning, he dragged himself from bed, unwilling to search for clean clothes. Instead, he stumbled to the door in his boxers, feeling light-headed again. Scratching at his chest, he opened the door, unable to stop a yawn.

“Hello, Mister- Oh.”

Blinking, Jack looked down at Eric once again. This time, he had a tray with a glass of milk, a reindeer shaped cookie (complete with little red nose) and a little pile of mail with Jack's name on it. “Good... morning?” Jack said, brain still catching up with him.

“Oh, my,” Eric breathed, gazing at Jack's chest. Then he blinked, looked Jack up and down and frowned. “I was making more cookies again,” he began.

“And you baked too many?”

“No, I set this one aside. It's gingerbread. And I thought you might like some fresh milk, to protect your bones from all those rough plays you do, if you're not going outside. And I caught the mailman and got today's mail from him, so you don't need to go downstairs. I was going to make sure you ate it this time but I rather think this isn't enough.”

“You want to feed me _more_ cookies?” Jack asked.

“Not cookies,” Eric said. “When was the last time you ate? I can practically see your ribs! I've seen those Faceoffs and you were never this thin!”

Looking down at himself, Jack blinked. “You... watch those?”

“Indeed I do, Mister Zimmermann. Now, here.” He passed the tray to Jack who instinctively took it, unsure quite what was happening. “I just need to go to the store to buy some things but I'm definitely going to cook you something more filling. Just you wait!”

With that, he disappeared, leaving Jack with the feeling that he'd just experienced a whirlwind. Retreating inside, he took the tray to the living room. Since it seemed that Eric would be returning, Jack pulled out tracksuit bottoms and a Falconers t-shirt. Once dressed, he went to the living room and put the TV on as background noise. But he didn't look at the screen at all, staring at the small 'meal' that was in front of him. Looking at it made him feel nauseas but also rather confused: why was Eric being so nice after the way he'd treated him.

So, as a gesture of apology, Jack forced himself to drink the milk. A few times, he thought he might throw up but, once he'd slowed his pace, he managed the whole glass. And, as he stood to take the glass to the kitchen, he realised that he felt a bit better. “Huh,” he murmured to himself as he poured water in the sink. Just as he put the clean glass in the drainer, there was a knock at the door, just two sharp raps.

Deciding it must be Eric, Jack hurried to the door and let him in, surprised to find him laden with two large paper bags. He was wrapped up in a red hat and scarf and, apparently, mittens. Jack thought he looked rather adorable, all wrapped up like that. The determined look on his face, however, put paid to that train of thought as Eric swept in and headed for the kitchen. Following him, Jack decided he should probably stop him.

“You really don't have to do this, you know,” he said, weakly. “You shouldn't have to-”

“Oh, I _have to_ all right, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric said, dropping the bags onto the counter. Once he'd put them down, he began to tug off all his outerwear, returning to the hall. He frowned at the plate with the cookies on them as he went; he still looked upset that they hadn't been eaten and it sent another pang of guilt shooting through Jack.

“ _Really_ ,” he tried again. “You don't have to do this. It's not your job.”

“I'm _making_ it my job,” Eric said, lifting the plate with the cookies and dumping both of them into the garbage can. “Now, you just go sit your butt down and let me cook in peace.”

“I think I should at least help-”

“No, no. _Out_ of my kitchen, _now_ , Mister Zimmermann.” And Eric, with a surprising show of strength, pushed Jack out of the room and swung the door shut in his face.

“But... it's _my_ kitchen,” Jack said to the door before taking himself off to do as Eric had ordered.

* * *

It was amazing what smells could come from his own kitchen. Jack was almost in tears. Whatever Eric was making, it was nostalgia mixed with love and comfort. The noises from the kitchen, the bustling and clanking, combined with the smells to envelope Jack in a sense of being cared for, a sense that his world wasn't falling to pieces. Of course, it was an illusion, but it really made him want to call home, tell his parents that he _wasn't_ okay, that he _needed_ them.

When Eric finally opened the door, he brought out both a large tourtière and a plate of butter tarts. Jack could only stare, stomach rumbling as his neighbour brought over the treats. “Now,” he said, “I got the recipes online so I'm not sure I did the too-r-ter- Too-r-teh-er. Er. The pie. I'm not sure it's right but I'm sure it'll taste good, regardless. My pies are not to be sniffed at! And, as for the tarts, I wasn't sure if you liked raisins so I just left them out. Completely raisin free! _And_ you have your gingerbread cookie. So eat up!”

“Eric, I-”

“Less talking, more eating! What are you watching?”

“Oh, um?” Jack said, watching as Eric began to expertly slice the pie. “I think it's a Christmas movie? I haven't been paying attention.”

“Ooh, it's got Whoopi Goldberg in it!” Eric said, excitedly. Grabbing the remote, he turned the volume up – which explained why Jack hadn't really been following the movie before.

For a while, they ate, Eric entranced by the movie. Jack watched him instead, wondering what was going through his head to sacrifice himself in this way. He hadn't asked for his help, hadn't broken down in front of him. Yet, it was almost as if Eric knew exactly what he needed.

When Eric turned back to him, Jack had to glance down to his plate, surprised to find that he'd eaten most of the pie. “That Lucy character reminds me of you – no Christmas spirit!”

“It hasn't been a good year...” Jack murmured, sticking another piece of pie into his mouth.

“Oh, _honey_ , I know. When I heard you were out for part of the season, I was _so_ worried. And after all that hard work to get back in shape...” Eric shook his head before grimacing. “Ah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't bring that up.”

“It's fine,” Jack said, though it wasn't.

“You must be devastated.” Eric paused. “Is that why-?”

“No,” Jack said, shortly.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Jack realised that he did. Yet, he barely knew Eric and he didn't want to drag him into his mess more than he already had. More than ever, he wanted to call his mom and talk to her. Maybe talk to his dad, too. Shaking his head, Jack opened his mouth to speak only for Eric's ringtone to startle both of them.

“Oh, I...” Eric said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and pulling a face.

“You should get back to what you were doing,” Jack told Eric.

“Are you sure?”

“I'll be fine,” Jack assured him. “I've got all this food, after all.”

“Right,” said Eric.

Jack walked him to the door and held it open for him. “Hey, Eric,” he said, just before he closed the door. Blinking up at him, Eric turned back to him, waiting patiently for Jack to speak. “The tourtière was amazing. It was as if it had been made by a native Canadian.”

Eric sniffed, sticking his nose in the air. “Canadians _wish_ they could make one _that_ good.” Grinning at Jack, Eric winked and hurried off, tapping at his phone as he went.

Smiling himself, Jack closed the door and went back to finish off the pie. He even had a butter tart and, though feeling both full and a little sick from overeating, Jack even tried the cookie. By the end of the day, there was nothing left of Rudolph.

* * *

The next day, Jack had packed his bags and was just making sure he had his car keys when there was a knock at the door. Wondering if his worried parents had driven down despite their conversation the night before, Jack made his way to the door to find Eric on the other side with a plastic box, sealed tight.

“Oh,” he said, taking in Jack's coat and scarf. “I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were... Well, _of course_ you would be. I mean, it's not as if- Well, I mean-”

“Good morning, Eric,” said Jack, amused. “Are those more cookies?”

“Ah, yes. Just in case the other one had been left out and gone stale.”

“It was amazing. Are you a professional baker?”

“I- Oh. Well. I'd like to be. You ate it?”

Nodding, Jack watched Eric's expression change from surprised to pleased. Something strange happened within his chest at the sight but he set that aside to deal with later. He was going to be late if he didn't leave soon. “So... _Are_ those cookies?”

“Oh! Yes. I made a few and, well-”

“Had some left over?”

Eric's grin was like looking at the sun; Jack had to glance away. “Yes. I put them in a box since you seem to have trouble with eating them fresh. This should stop them from going stale so quickly.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, meaning for everything. He took the box and opened it, smiling at the sight of several angels.

“Well, um, you're obviously going somewhere so I'll be going now.”

“All right. I'm going home for a while and I'm not sure when I'll get back.”

“Oh, okay,” said Eric, looking a little disappointed. “Have a safe trip, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Thanks. And you can call me Jack, you know. You don't have to be so formal.” Eric blushed and nodded. Jack grinned at the sight. “I'll be giving some of these to my parents, by the way – can't keep them all to myself.”

They smiled at each other for a moment. Slowly, Eric began to turn red and, rather flustered, he said goodbye again and hurried off. Jack watched him go, his smile unconsciously growing. Then he returned to his own apartment to make sure he had everything.

(When his mom asked him who had given him the cookies several hours later, Jack told her it had been an angel.)


End file.
